The Game's the Same
by Esme18
Summary: You knew this was coming! So get ready for time travelling, 21st meets 19th century, Sherlock/OC, Mary-Sue frivolity! Full summary inside!
1. Let the game begin!

**A.N: You knew someone was going to write it! So why not me! Rachel is a 2010 detective from Australia, who finds herself transported to Baker Street with our favourite London detectives over 100 years in the past. Can a 21st century detective help a detective from the 1890's solve one of his trickiest cases? The date may have changed but The Games the Same!**

**Esme**

If there was one thing Rachel Tortoni hated about being a policewoman, it was the hours she had to spend in the office filling out paperwork. One of the things that had first attracted her to the police was being out on the streets, being in the thick of the action. Spending her life behind a desk was one of the things she was trying to _avoid_ by joining the force. During all her training at The Police Academy, they had studied many different skills needed to become a successful officer; oddly enough filing had never come up.

But Rachel knew she shouldn't be complaining. She had spent years trying to become a Senior Detective for the police. From the time she was a little kid there hadn't been anything else she'd wanted to do. And becoming a detective wasn't an easy thing to do either. But she had to admit, that working as a uniformed constable, spending her nights breaking up fights and arresting drunks, was a little more stimulating than spending hours poring over listening device transcripts.

When she often told people that she was a policewoman, their initial response was to laugh. Rachel could kind of see their point; she didn't exactly cut an imposing figure. She only stood at about 5'3 and her soft curly brown hair and large childlike brown eyes made her look more like a schoolgirl, than someone tough enough to deal with criminals on a daily basis. Her friend Sophie often said that back when she was a uniformed constable she looked like a kid on her way to a costume party.

But she had shown that despite her fragile looks she was tough enough to come through The Academy with flying colours, and years of hard work and skill had enabled her to climb her way up the ladder to becoming a Detective. Mercifully, a plain-clothed one.

By the time she finally made it back to her little Victorian terrace house in Melbourne, it was well past midnight. Lugging a box of files under one arm, and carrying a bag of groceries in the other hand, opening the front door proved a little bit of a task, but she finally got it open. The smell of goulash hit her in the face as soon as she walked in the door, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Her roommate had obviously waited for her to come home before making dinner.

Sophie and Rachel had been friends ever since they were little, much to the bemusement of family. As they started to grow into young women it became more obvious just how different they were. While Rachel turned into a feminine and determined young woman, set on a career in law enforcement, Sophie became an unruly Goth, working as a tarot card reader at The Queen Victoria Market. Though outwardly they appeared completely dissimilar, they understood each perfectly.

"Finally home huh?" Sophie smiled over the saucepan, "Hows tricks?"

"Ugh", Rachel sighed, taking off her black business jacket, "I've spent half the day trying to convince some Bogan to grass on his boss. It's surprisingly hard for me to convince anyone to nark on anybody. Even when I _am_ carrying a Smith and Wesson!"

"Maybe I should come with you," Sophie shrugged, "I convinced a young girl today her future lies in Bermuda!"

"How can you tell people things like that and give them false hope. It's so mean! You realise I could arrest you for fraud?" Rachel frowned.

"You wouldn't," Sophie smiled cheekily, "You love me too much. Anyway you can be as sceptical as you like but I really can work magic. I've been telling you for years!"

"Sophie darl, don't take this the wrong way, but you learned witchcraft out of a book you found at the library. If that book held real spells the librarian would look like Jessica Alba." Sophie frowned at her. Rachel just shrugged. "All I'm saying is I'll believe our power when I see it."

Rachel flopped down onto the sofa, stretching up her hands and rumpling the curls piled on top of her head. Glancing into the kitchenette, where Sophie stirred the goulash, she noticed that the light on the answering machine was flashing.

"Have you checked the messages yet?" She called out.

"No," Sophie said, "I just got in." Reluctantly Rachel hauled herself back onto her feet and padded over to the kitchen counter. There were 2 new messages.

"_Sophie honey? This is your Mum. I need to know if you're going to your brother's 2__nd__ wedding anniversary party? We need to finalise the seating arrangement. Let me know!"_

"Ugh! I don't want to go to that thing!" Sophie pouted, "I hate that wife of his!" Rachel smiled and pressed for the second smiled.

"_Guess who Tortoni? You've stuck your nose in for the last time. Keep your door locked bitch. Cause I'm coming for you."_

The line went dead.

* * *

2 hours later the house was flooded with Rachel's friends. Usually when her friends from work came over to the house it was for a party. They didn't usually come armed with guns, or tapping the phone line.

Rachel sat on the couch staring into space. It wasn't like she'd never come face to face with danger personally before. She had been in hostage situations before. But never with someone who knew where she lived.

"OK, here's what we have," Rachel jumped a little as her boss, Senior Detective Sergent Alan Abbotsford sat down on the couch next to her. He was a tough, bull-headed old man who had been an officer for over 30 years. He may have appeared gruff and distant, but he was really a sweet old guy deep down.

"We've traced the call to a payphone in Malvern. Now there is no CCTV footage in that area, so all we can go on now are any of the suspects in any of your previous or current cases. So for the moment our only option is to put you into Wit Sec."

Rachel stared at him in shock. "Witness Security? I can't spend months holed up in some shack in the bush! What about my family? What about my job? What-"

"What about being alive? Rachel if you don't go in to Protective Custody, you won't be working anywhere. Or seeing your family." Rachel sighed, burying her head in her hands. Cautiously, Alan reached out and patted her awkwardly on the arm.

"Pack a bag. Senior Detective Andrews will be driving you to a safe location."

* * *

Rachel tried to move quickly, but her mind was in too much of a whirl. She had put people into protective custody before, but it was so strange to be on the other end of it. What did she pack? Where was she going? When could she come back?

Eventually she managed to get herself into the car, clutching at the handle of her suitcase, and looking out of the car window, at the dark, raining world whizzing by, trying to think, Senior Detective Daniel Andrews at the wheel.

"Why are you wearing your weapons belt?" He asked after a moment. Rachel glanced down to her waist where her old weapons belt was, with her gun; baton, mace, handcuffs and all were attached. It was the first thing she had done when her boss had told her to pack.

"It makes me feel safer." She muttered, packing some more clothes into a suitcase.

Rachel heaved a sigh, staring out of the window and trying to make sense of it all.

"It'll all be OK Rachel.' Daniel said, "We'll find out who this guy is, don't you worry."

"But when? You know there are people who've been in Protective Custody for years?"

"We'll find him. Don't worry."

Rachel lapsed back into silence and stared back out the window. She couldn't get her thoughts to settle. There was so much going through it. Coming home at night and watching TV with Sophie, going round to her parents. Going out for drinks after works. It all seemed so foreign to her, as though it had happened in a previous life. What would her life be now? Where would she work? Where would she live? Who would her friends be? Who would her new friends know her as? It all swirled around in her head, confusing, frightening. It was all too much. It couldn't be real. It wasn't real.

Suddenly she was jolted from her thoughts as the car horn blasted and the car swerved.

"What the hell is going on?" She gasped, clutching at the dashboard.

"We're being followed." Daniel gushed. He violently swerved, trying to lose the car behind them. But they followed. Rachel gripped hold of her seatbelt, the only coherent though being that they had come to get her.

"Well, that didn't take long." She muttered.

'"We're not done yet." Daniel aid. The car began to gain speed. The country began to blur, reduced to a wet, shining strip of road in front of them and blurred gumtrees.

Slowly but surely, the car behind them began to disappear, just as another car appeared in front of them. The brakes crunched, the car skidded. But it didn't stop quick enough.

The 2 cars collided in a shower of metal and glass. Rachel clutched hold of her bag, as her head hit the dashboard and the world began to fade. The last coherent thought she had was that maybe, dying this way was quicker than being hunted.

* * *

**A.N: OK so this wasn't the greatest chapter but I just had to explain how everything began. They're almost always boring to read and write aren't they? Anyway, I crave reviews, both complimentary and critical (FYI, critical is NOT the same as flames!) Next chapter tomorrow! And keep your eye out for your favourite Detective! **

**BTW, as an Australian, I know a bit about The Victoria Police, and researched the rest, from Rachel's rank, to the kind of wepaons they carry. So that's all pretty accurate. **

**So please stick with me because I promise the next chapter will be much better!**

**Esme**


	2. The Game's Afoot

_**Hallo all! Welcome to the second instalment of The Game's the Same! Thank you to my 2 lovely reviewers, S Y N T H E T I Cperfection and Ilovetonystarkandwolverine! Your kind words warm my heart! So to you and all my other readers (if you exist!), I hope you enjoy!**_

_**Esme**_

* * *

The carriage stopped outside 221 Baker Street and Dr. Jonathon Watson started up the steps for what felt like the millionth time. When he had moved out to his new offices in Cavendish Place and gotten married, he never expected to be darkening the door quite as much. But as Mary, his loving wife had pointed out to him; Sherlock Holmes wasn't just his friend but a part of him. And solving the crimes of the great metropolis, that had become as natural to him as coffee in the morning.

Of course there was nothing natural or normal about his daily visits to Sherlock Holmes. One of the most interesting moments of the day was seeing what lay behind the front door of 221B Baker Street. Some of the most unique sights had met him behind that door.

But today, everything seemed relatively quiet. Dr. Watson picked up the paper and headed up the staircase, meeting Mrs. Hudson half way.

"Oh Doctor! Good morning." Mrs. Hudson smiled, and John couldn't help but notice her smile was rather weary. He felt a pang of guilt. Ever since he had moved out Mrs. Hudson had had the sole responsibility of controlling Sherlock, which John knew from experience was sometimes like trying to reign in a hyperactive child on a sugar high.

"Good morning Mrs. Hudson" Dr. Watson said gently. The poor woman looked as though one harsh noise might make her snap. "How goes it?" He tilted his gaze upward.

'Oh I never got a moments sleep last night. Between the gun blasts and the violin." She sighed.

"He's still trying to create a contraption to muffle a gunshot?"

"Yes and still failing. Not the slightest difference in pitch I assure you." She smiled rather grimly. "Doctor, do you think you could speak to him?"

"I'll give it my best, I promise you." He assured her. With another fatigued smile Mrs. Hudson departed down the stairs.

A strange smell, unidentifiable, hit Dr. Watson as soon as he opened the door to Sherlock's quarters. The stench was the only sigh of life coming from the room. All the curtains were drawn, covering the room in an eerie, unnatural darkness. The furniture threw out twisted shadows into the open doorway, and the ticking pendulum of the clock on the mantle was the only sign of life in the room at all.

Dr. Watson stepped inside, closing the door gently and looking for some sigh of Holmes. Everyday when he came over to visit his friend, there was always a moment of apprehension, as he tried to prepare himself to find Sherlock dead; overdosed on the rug in front of the fireplace.

"Holmes?" he called out cautiously, "Holmes?"

Suddenly there was a loud clatter and a crash from the other side of the room, causing John to jump a foot in the air. Fed up with trying to construe a situation in total darkness, Watson strode over to the window, flinging open the curtain. Shafts of piercing bright light entered the room, resulting in another loud crash from the other end of the room, followed by an agonised moan. A sound that was unmistakably the hung over wailings of Sherlock Holmes.

"Well it's good to see that you're alive." Watson said dryly.

Slowly Holmes rose to his feet. He was completely dishevelled, dressed in a pair of black trousers, and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up and stained with various chemicals at the cuffs. His hair looked as though it had been through a hurricane, a weeks worth of black whiskers crusted his face, and his eyes were red rimmed and puffy from a lack of sleep and an abundance of alcohol.

"I was merely…catching up on some sleep." He said, trying his best to look composed.

"Sleep?" Dr. Watson said, picking up a bottle of empty brandy, "I think we should call it passing out."

"I needed it. I've begun one of my most marvellous experiments!" He turned back to his workbench, pushing papers and books to the floor, revealing a beaker of green liquid on the workbench. "I ask you Watson, what is one of the greatest problems facing people this summer?"

"Playing Nanny to an alcohol soaked 39 year old?"

"Close Mother Hen but no. Mosquitos."

Watson gaped at him for a moment. "Mosquitos?"

"Yes!" Holmes said. He looked a little unbalanced. And as Watson looked at him, he saw that he had somehow managed to singe his eyebrows, solving the mystery of the rooms strange smell.

"With summer just around the corner, thousands of London's elite will be flocking to the beaches of Brighton and Calais for their holiday. And once there they will be plagued with mosquitos. But by then, this mosquito repellent" he held up the beaker, "Will keep these pests at bay!"

Dr. Watson just stared at him. For a moment the ticking of the clock was deafening.

"Holmes," he said eventually, "When one of the greatest minds of the 19th century spends his days trying to create a mosquito…repeller-"

"Repellent." Holes corrected waspishly

'Repellent." He amended, "It can only mean one thing: you are in dire need of a case!"

Holmes put down the beaker and sunk into an armchair. He seemed suddenly deflated. "There is absolutely no case of intellectual interest to me out there at all. I have pored over all the letters Mrs. Holmes has brought me," he gestured vaguely to the pile of letters on the mantle, "But there is nothing in there at all.'"

Watson sighed. "Well then, maybe I'll just have to settle for seeing you go outside."

"I am not leaving these rooms until I have a valid reason."

Suddenly there was a great pounding of footsteps on the staircase, and Mrs. Hudson flung the door open, looking quite startled.

'Doctor! Mr. Holmes! Please come quick! There's a young woman lying unconscious on the doorstep!"

"Well," Watson said after a moment of stunned silence, "Ask and thou shall receive."

* * *

"What an unusual creature." Watson mused. They had collected the woman and her luggage off the doorstep and carried her up to the doctor's old offices, laying her out on the old table. "Where do you suppose she came from?"

Holmes circled her for a moment, eyeing every inch of her carefully, his finger to his chin in meditative silence. Suddenly he picked up her hand, and inspected her palm.

"Look at this." He gestured Watson forward. Watson looked down at the palm of her hand, where a callous or two were.

"Calluses? A workingwoman? Perhaps a laundress?"

'Perhaps, but look at her nails." Holmes held up her hand to Watson, who saw her nails were long and immaculate. "And," he sniffed her hand "Almond oil"

"What kind of laundress has such long, clean nails and can afford almond oil hand cream?"

"And how many of them carry a gun?" Holmes reached out and removed her gun from its holster. "A rather odd gun," he mused, turning it in his hand.

"A rather odd assortment all together." Watson said. Reaching down, he grabbed hold of a small bottle attached to her belt. He held it up to his ear and shook it: it seemed to be filled with liquid. He held it up at eye level, inspecting it carefully and, quite unintentionally, gave the top of the bottle a little squeeze. Quite suddenly, a jet of liquid shot out and hit him straight in the eyes.

Holmes jumped a foot in the air as Watson fell to the floor, screaming in agony. He writhed on the floor, wailing and convulsing, clutching at his eyes.

While Holmes watched on helplessly, the screaming had aroused the sleeping woman. With a well-practised speed, she swiftly kicked Holmes in the stomach, grabbing the gun from him as he crumpled to thew floor. Jumping up from the table, she clutched the gun in both hands, pointing the barrel directly at the 2 men on the floor.

"So," she asked in a strange accent, "Which one's Beavis and which one's Butthead?"

* * *

_**And that's Chapter 2! I know the whole mosquito thing is a little silly, but I figured cabin fever would have that effect on him! And I know absolutely nothing about guns, but I'm sure they've changed since the 1890's! So review away my dears and look out for chapter 3 in the next couple of days!**_

_**Esme.**_


	3. Keep your cards close to your chest

_**Howdy! Sorry it took me so long to update but it was the weekend! I had stuff to do. Let's hope it was worth the wait!**_

_**Esme**_

"Well this is slightly more interesting than the repellent, wouldn't you say Watson?"

Sherlock looked up with some amusement at the young woman standing over him, her gun pointed at his forehead. If he was honest with himself, there was slight caution in his heart as well. Normally, one lone gunman, or woman in this case, would be of little consequence. But with Watson currently incapacitated by God knew what, and having been caught so off guard, he knew he had very little control over the situation.

Also, there was something about this woman that Holmes just couldn't place. Something that just didn't add up. And as Holmes could always tell a persons story and motives with a simple glance, this was slightly disconcerting. And it tweaked that old excitement and curiosity that had been lying dormant in Holmes for so many months.

"And do what do we owe this pleasure my dear woman?" He smiled up at her from where he knelt on the floor.

"Lie on your stomach, hands begins your back." She ordered.

"Perhaps it would be a better idea to continue this conversation over tea." Holmes suggested mildly. "Of course I have no tea at hand, but you look like a woman who would appreciate an aged Merlot."

Rachel cocked her gun. "On your stomach!"

Holmes complied, giving a bored sigh as he did so, as though Rachel and her orders were of little consequence. This gesture was not lost on Rachel, which was why when she went to put on her handcuffs, she dug her knee into his back with a little more force into his back then was necessary.

"There may be some men who enjoy such treatment my dear child, but I do not count myself as one of them." He muttered, his mouth pressed to the floor. Grabbing hold of the back of his shirt, Rachel lifted him off the floor and fairly threw him into a chair.

"Shut up, I'm not interested in what gets you off" she snapped, slipping the gun back into its holster, "And I'm not a child, I'm 27." Rachel leant back against the tale, folding her arms across her chest, and eyeing him with that same intimidating looked she used on suspects. "What I am interested in is why you have been threatening me, and why you have brought me here."

Holmes looked up at her with some confusion "What "gets me off?"

"Now!"

"I wonder, if we could I interrupt these paranoid, deluded ramblings for just a moment and offer my colleague some assistance."

Rachel glanced over carelessly at Watson,, who was still lying on the floor, whimpering with his hands over his eyes. "He'll be fine in an hour."

'"Ands I'm quite willing to answer your charges as soon as my friend receives some assistance." Holmes bluffed.

Rachel sighed and went over to Watson, picked him up and deposited the ailing doctor into a chair, and headed to the washbasin by the window. As she began to soak a washcloth in cold water Holmes furtively reached up to his belt where he kept a small file, and began to pick the lock. The handcuffs gave a noisy click as there lock gave way, but Rachel gave it no see. In fact Holmes noticed that she was staring out the window, her eyes wide and her face white.

"Madam?"

"Where have you brought me?" Her voice wasn't strong anymore. It shook with fright.

"That is London madam." Rachel turned her wide eyes to face him. She stared at him for a moment, and then flew out the door. Holmes could here her feet pounding down the staircase and a small shriek and the clatter of china as she brushed past Mrs. Hudson on the staircase.

"Mr. Holmes, what have you done now?" A startled Mrs. Hudson asked, appearing suddenly in the doorway.

Holmes took off the handcuffs and through them on the floor.

"Ah Mrs. Hudson just in time," he said briskly. "Attend to the doctor will you." And leaving a thoroughly confused Mrs. Hudson behind him, Holmes dashed out the door, down the stairs, just in time to see Rachel collapse in the front entrance.

* * *

"All in all a most productive and instructive afternoon. Wouldn't you agree, dear Doctor?"

Absently plucking the strings of his violin, Holmes turned to look at his companion, who was reclining in an armchair by the fire, a cold cloth pressed against his swollen, red eyes. Watson simply glowered at him.

"I'll admit there were one or two unfortunate incidents-" Holmes began.

"I was blinded!" Watson shouted.

"Well, yes but you recovered didn't you?"

"Holmes-!"

"The point is," Holmes cut him off, "You wanted me to find a new occupation to busy myself, and now I have one. The mysterious case of Miss Rachel."

Dr. Watson threw his wet rag aside and slowly got to his feet. "May I remind you Holmes, that Miss Rachel did not ask for your help, nor did she confess to any problems."

"That is immaterial. Surely, you couldn't fail to notice the agitation and fright she displayed upon waking up and learning of her location." Watson glared at him. "Oh, I beg your pardon, of course you didn't." he put down his violin and went over to the workbench, picking up his pipe. "And you're wrong."

"Wrong?"

"Perhaps if I add a little citronella." Holmes mused, holding up his repellent.

'What do you mean I'm wrong?" Watson prodded.

"Ah!" Holmes put down the beaker, and Watson noticed that the glint had returned to his eye. That glint of excitement and curiosity.

"Miss Rachel thought she had been kidnapped and mentioned something about a malevolent message. That coupled with the luggage she brought and the disguise she was wearing clearly indicate that she is on the wrong from someone who wishes her harm." With a slightly smug smile, Holmes sat down and lit his pipe.

Dr. Watson thought about this for a moment. 'In disguise?"

"Yes. Well surely you didn't fail to see that she was wearing men's trousers." Watson was about to speak when there was a knock at the door. That excited glimmer returned to his eye.

"Whatever the mystery may be, we shall soon discover." He smiled, getting to his feet.

"How so?" Watson asked wearily. He recognised that smile.

"I have invited our charming captor to join us for drinks this evening."

"Holmes, if the woman had been through all you say I doubt she's in any condition to withstand an interrogation."

"Now don't fret dear doctor. This is going to be a pleasant, relaxing evening." Watson raised a swollen eyebrow.

"I may ask a few questions but," he smiled, his hand on the doorknob, "There's no harm in being neighbourly."

The door opened to reveal Rachel, freshly dressed, her soft curls falling around her face, wearing a pair of jeans and a white cotton gypsy blouse. Though still looking slightly shaken, she smiled warmly at Holmes' familiar face.

'Ah Miss Rachel!" Holmes took her hand and kissed it. "Delightful to see you again. You didn't bring your handcuffs by any chance?"

Rachel stepped awkwardly into the sitting room "Uh yeah, sorry about that."

"Oh don't worry my dear, it wasn't the first time a woman put me in handcuffs. And of course you remember my friend Dr. Watson."

"Ah, yes, I suppose I owe you an apology as well."

"Oh don't worry about it!" Holmes said smilingly, busying himself with the drinks. "Water under the bridge!"

"Yes, well you were rather startled at the time." Watson smiled wryly, rubbing at his eyes. "May I ask what that was exactly?"

"Oh that was mace. You know pepper spray. It's like liquid pepper. It blinds someone temporarily." She explained, seeing that he was confused. "But perfume or liquid soap will work in a pinch. It's standard issue."

"Standard issue?" Holmes asked

"Uh, never mind." Rachel looked around for something to change the subject. "What's this?" she asked, picking up Homes' pistol with his primitive silencer attached.

"Oh I am in the process, of inventing a device, which muffles the sound of a gunshot." Holmes said proudly, coming over to Watson and Rachel with a tray of drinks.

"You mean a silencer?" she asked. Holmes blinked.

"You've… heard of this device before?"

Rachel smiled apologetically. "Sorry."

"Yes, well, sit down." Holmes said gruffly. He thrust a tumbler into her hand. "Here."

Sensing she had said something wrong, Rachel took a sip of her drink and began to cough violently. "This stuff should have an octane reading!" she coughed.

"I think that's one of Holmes experimental cocktails." Watson smiled, observing this back and forth with amusement.

"Wow inventor, brewer. You could fight crime." She smiled.

"Well I do." Holmes sat down and stared at her intensely

Rachel gawked at him "What?"

"Yes, Holmes is the greatest detective in all of London. Possibly in all of England." Watson said.

"A det-detective?" Rachel's voice shook a little

"Yes that's right. One look at you and Holmes can tell you your entire life story. You don't want him to though." Watson warned, "His manner is somewhat…coarse."

"Well it isn't my fault that some do not care to hear the truth about themselves." Holmes shrugged.

"Well, what is the truth about me?" asked Rachel. She knew there was no way he could guess who she was or where she was from but she wanted to see him discomforted. Something about this man just rubbed her the wrong way.

"Oh no." Watson sighed

"Gladly!" Holmes smiled. "The calluses on your hand show that you began your life as a working woman, but you recently came by quite a bit of money, likely by unlawful means, which explains why you're running away, why you are being hunted and why you arrived disguised in men's trousers. The material of the trousers is denim, most frequently used by miners, and based on your accent, I'd deduce that you've come to London directly from the Australian goldfields."

"Wow." Rachel said after a pause. "That is incredible."

Holmes smiled rather smugly. "Thank you."

"You are 100% wrong. I mean nothing you've said has been correct."

Holmes just stared at her. Watson smiled, noticing that his eyelid had begun to twitch.

"Nothing?" Watson asked, trying not to laugh. Rachel smiled.

"Sorry." She glanced over at Holmes, and could tell that she had crossed a line. Quickly she said her goodbyes and departed for her room.

As soon as the door closed Holmes got to his feet, and began to pace the room furiously.

"Well, it appears the genius has departed us." Watson tried to keep the laughter out of his voice. He noticed that Holmes had his hands were balled into fists I his pockets. Suddenly he stopped pacing as he caught sight of his silencer sitting on the side table. Picking it up, he threw the now useless device at the door, just as it opened to reveal Constable Clark, who luckily ducked in time.

"Oh, Clarky." Sherlock said gruffly.

"Good evening Sir."

"What have you got for me?"

"Uh, the Inspector asks that you come with me Sir. Both of you." He added, nodding to the doctor.

"What for?" asked Watson

"We've found a body down by the docks."

"Right, well lets go Watson." Holmes sighed. Clarke nodded and went back outside to wait for them.

"Holmes," Watson said as they gathered up their hats and coats, "You're not going to let your misjudgement tonight bother you are you?"

"Of course not." Holmes scoffed. "The woman is clearly lying. And if I am mistaken on a few details, well no one has deceived me for long." Holmes smiled., pulling on hid jacket. He gestured to the door. "To the docks dear Watson. The game's afoot."

They headed to the door, when suddenly Holmes stopped.

"One moment Doctor." Holmes headed back to his dressing table, and picked up a small bottle of perfume, and slipped it into his pocket.

"Carry on Watson."

* * *

_**And that's Chapter three! To be totally honest I'm not too happy with this one and might rewrite it. Let me know what you think!**_

_**Esme**_


End file.
